If One Man Rises, Another Must Fall
by Destiel-Johnlock-shipper
Summary: John's been left alone for more than two years, and is on the brink. When suddenly, a knight in shining armor appears. Will he save him, or push him off the edge?
1. Chapter 1

Johnlock-Post Reichenbach

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, sitting low in a crouch. He was hidden by a low wall in  
someone's back garden. He had his eyes locked on a pair of men deep in conversation. They had worked  
for the late Jim Moriarty.

They were the last. He had eliminated every other, and could tell these men were paranoid.  
They had themselves surrounded by various security measures, but Sherlock had bypassed them as  
easily as breathing. He could have done the same at age seven.

Sighing, he cracked open the suitcase beside him, pulling out the Uzi nestled within. He began to  
take aim, but soon gave up and pulled the trigger.

The men fell easily, were down in five seconds. Sherlock wiped the gun down, tossing it in the  
pool across from him. He was done. He could go home. Home, to Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, even Mycroft.  
And John. He grinned and let out a childish giggle, ignoring the bodies that lay only a few hundred feet  
away, blood dripping out of the holes that riddled their bodies. He was finally done.

It had been two and a half years, and John still wasn't over Sherlock, or his death. He had  
admitted to himself days before Sherlock's suicide that he was in love with the only consulting detective.  
He just never got a chance to say anything, what with the "fraud" business.

Every day, John woke up and made two cups of tea. Two pieces of toast, his slathered with  
strawberry jam, the other plain with a side of eggs Benedict. He still heard violin music at 3am, and saw  
a shadow of Sherlock peering in his microscope. But then John realized that he was gone, and he wasn't coming back.

John had been prescribed numerous sleeping medications, but he didn't bother taking them.  
They didn't help. They never would.

He saved the pills. The first couple of weeks, he had tossed each new bottle down the garbage  
disposal. Then he had an epiphany. He could use these, eventually. So he saved them. He had also  
purchased a handgun. Whether for protection or self-annihilation, he didn't know. Still he kept it tucked  
under his pillow.

He was currently nestled in Sherlock's bed, his pillow shoved to his nose, taking in the scent of  
Sherlock. He knew it wasn't healthy, but he couldn't help it. He just missed the mad man so much his  
heart ached.

A tear escaped his bloodshot eyes, rolling down his face and soaking into his hair. He sat up  
slowly, clutching the pillow to his chest, his heart pounding in his ears. Walking to his room, he grabbed  
the gun and walked calmly back to the den. He sat down, snagging a pen and paper off of the dining  
room table, and started to write.

_Mrs. Hudson,_

_I'm sorry. I just can't go on without him. I just can't live in a world that is convinced he_  
_was a fraud. He wasn't a fake. He was the smartest man I've ever known. You've been wonderful to me_  
_these last few years, Mrs. Hudson, and I thank you._

_-John_

**BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK**

He wrote letters to Lestrade, Molly, Harry, and Mycroft, all varying in what they said, but all  
containing the same message. He wrote one to both Donovan and Anderson, saying "Rot in hell","you sons-of-bitches", and "You bloody wankers" to  
name a few phrases.

He folded these up, labeled them, and set them aside. He pulled up another piece of paper and  
took a deep breath. Paper met pen and words poured out.

_Sherlock,_

_You made me realize that not everything is as it seems, and that looking closer could_  
_save a life. You were my opposite, and that made a balance. I know you aren't coming back, Sherlock,_  
_but I had to write this letter. You are on my mind constantly, and I still sleep with your pillow. I didn't_  
_believe you were a fraud, and I still don't. I never will. You were the most honourable man I've ever had_  
_the pleasure to know, and I know you don't believe in heroes, but I still think you are one._

_I love you, Sherlock, and I'll see you soon._

_-John_

He folded this last letter up, wrote SHERLOCK on it in big bold letters, and set it on top of the  
rest. Wrapping his fingers around the handle, he raised the gun to his chin, finger on the trigger. Then  
the door flew open.

Sherlock had a giant grin on his face as he bounded up the stairs inside 221B Baker Street. As  
excited as he was at the thought of seeing John again, Sherlock wasn't thinking rationally. He wasn't  
thinking of John's delicate mental state, or what John would do when he saw a dead man run through  
the front door. All he could think was "John." His smile bright enough to make night turn to day, he  
pushed the door open and scrambled inside. The sight that met him made his smile and stomach drop in unison.


	2. Chapter 2

John sat, gun still up, and stared at the apparition in front of him. An apparition, it had to be. It was the only logical explanation. He let his hand fall to his lap, gun slamming into his thigh. He saw Sherlock's smile disappear.

"Sherlock? Am I dead? Why aren't you smiling? I like your smile," he stammered. Sherlock rushed over to him, taking the gun and tossing it aside.

"John! John, stop it!" Sherlock started slapping John's face, trying to snap him out of his temporary insanity. "John, I'm real! This is real! Please, listen to me!"

John suddenly sat up straight, reaching out to Sherlock. Sherlock stilled, letting John's hands roam over his face, poking and prodding. His hand started to retract back to his body when his hand shot forward, clipping Sherlock in the jaw.

Sherlock fell back, landing with a thump on the floor. John stood, the shorter man towering over him. "Sherlock Holmes, what in the hell is this?" Sherlock looked up at him, shock and surprise on his face. His hands cradled his jaw. "You think you can just waltz in here and expect a surprise party?! You are supposed to be DEAD! Why aren't you DEAD?!"

Sherlock scrambled back, afraid of the look in John's eyes. "I didn't- I thought- I thought you would be happy," he whispered, looking down at the threadbare carpet.

John could feel his heart breaking as he uttered these words. "Get out, Sherlock. Get out. I don't want to see you now. Go." Sherlock looked back up to him, sadness etched in the new lines on his face.

"You can't be serious."

Jon nodded. "Please go, Sherlock, before I kill someone." Sherlock's eyes widened, and he glanced toward the gun. He stood, stooping to get the gun on his way to the door.

"Text me if- if you want to talk. Goodbye, John." He shuffled out the door, stuffing the gun into his pocket.

As the door snapped shut, John crumpled, falling to the floor with a thump. Tears instantly started to fall, and he curled up, wrapping his hands around his head and rocking. Unable to stop himself, the sobs escaped one after the other, getting louder as they progressed. He stayed there the rest of the night.

_"John."_

_ Sherlock was standing on the edge of the roof, long coat and scarf fluttering in the heavy wind. His hair was a mess, the wind toying with the curls. _

_ "John, why are you here? You aren't supposed to be here."_

_ John looked at Sherlock, meeting his bright blue-green eyes with his own gray-blue. "Sherlock, don't do this. Please, no. You can't do this to me."_

"_John, this is the only way you'll survive. You'll go on with your life, get married, have kids, and live to a ripe old age and die in your sleep. If you stay with me, you'll be dead in a week."_

_Sherlock stepped to the edge of the building, turning his back to John. A cry tore from his lips, and he tried as hard as he could to run to him, to get to Sherlock, but his feet were stuck. He couldn't move. _

_Sherlock jumped._

_Suddenly, John was transported to the ground, standing where he had stood as he saw the love of his life, his madman detective hit the concrete. He didn't want to see this again, but he couldn't move. It was as if the ground had become quick sand._

"_Sherlock!"_

John shot up, breathing hard. He was still in a ball on the floor, his face wet. Glancing at the clock, he saw that he had only slept for an hour. He struggled to get up, and when he finally succeeded, he flopped into a chair. He didn't even have the energy to go to his bed.

Looking around, trying to get his bearing, his eyes landed on the pile of note he had written only an hour before. Pressing his lips together, he picked them up and threw them toward the trashcan, only one making it in. With a grimace, John noted that it was Sherlock's.

Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson burst in, her eyes wide. "Sherlock's not dead! I've just seen him come out of here! Did you see him?!" Her tone was colored with a mixture of both excitement and anger, and love and grief. When she saw the state John was in, she backtracked. "John? John, what's the matter?" She walked toward him slowly, as if he were a time bomb.

"I've seen Sherlock. He was here," he told her, a few more tears escaping. "He's supposed to be dead. Why isn't he dead?"

"Well, surely you don't _want_ him to be dead?"

"NO!" he cried. "Of course, I don't want him dead! I love him!" Mrs. Hudson took a step back, surprise in her eyes. She didn't say anything, just waited for him to go on. "I love him."

Sherlock couldn't find anywhere to sleep. None of the hotels had rooms available. Finally, he decided to go back on his promise to himself and ask someone for help. Sure, Lestrade probably wouldn't be happy, seeing as he was supposed to be dead, but he could give it a try.

When he reached Lestrade's place, the first thing he noticed was a new car, in addition to Lestrade's own car. He knocked on the door tentatively, and was surprised when a woman answered.

"Molly?"

"Sherlock?"

They stared at each other, one in shock, the other in surprise.

"What are you doing here? You agreed to leave Greg out of this!"

"Me, leave Greg out of this? What are you doing here?" Molly held up her left hand, showcasing his new ring.

"We're married… A year after you left."

"Molly?" called a voice from inside the house. "Who is it?"

"It's no one, dear," she called back. "Now, go, Sherlock."

"Molly, wha-" Lestrade had decided to investigate their visitor, and was surprised at who he found. "Sherlock?!"

"Hi, Greg."


End file.
